


Kings and Babes

by Oblivian03



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Silliness (just a bit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 07:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblivian03/pseuds/Oblivian03
Summary: Maitimo frequented the Courts of Tirion often during his time in Valinor, though some of those times were more scandalous than others. This is one of them.





	Kings and Babes

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a drabble-like exercise I did with an idea I had to get back into the flow of this fandom. It's by no means great, but I thought some of you might appreciate seeing some tragic characters in a happier light. I hope you enjoy!

The thing about having all three elven Kings in Aman meeting all at once was that it made for a rather grand affair. This required a lot of organising, a lot of elves ensuring that nothing would go wrong and offend any one of the Kings and Lords who were to be in attendance. Yet, no one could prepare for everything, not even the Valar themselves who knew only a fraction of Ilúvatar’s great plan.  

An elfling was crawling down a vast marble hallway, determinedly putting his limbs in the right places as he panted with the effort.

For anyone who cared to look further down the hall into a room through a door with a latch that didn’t properly close, they might catch a glimpse of another figure holding a torn child’s gown aloft as he ran his other hand through a copper beard and heartily swore.

This sequence of events would not have been so scandalous had not the path to the chamber where court was held been devoid of closed doors and other things that might inhibit an infant’s progress in moving forward. As such, the progress made was quite impressive for one so young. Even more impressive was his intelligence, demonstrated as he navigated the looming stairs before him. They were large steps and took much concentration, so much so a little tongue poked out of a frowning face as he carefully placed his hands on each lower step and slid the rest of himself down to join.  

Halfway down the child paused, sitting as he panted and playing with dust that had collected in the corner. When his breath returned, he continued down, determined to master this feat and curious as to what laid at the bottom.  

It was another long hall, much like the others he had crawled through before. Yet, ahead he could hear a familiar voice with its melodic lilt, the source of many a good lullaby and other amusing noises. There were other voices too, all as pretty in sound, like the bells the one he dully knew as mother sometimes jingled above his bed. Choice made, little hands splayed themselves resolutely on the ground and began the onerous task of crawling once again.

A little later, somewhere above at the top of the staircase a copper haired and flustered elf dashed by, pausing only long enough to see with no small amount of relief that no babe laid at the bottom of the stairs.

Meanwhile, in the halls were the Noldor’s councils were commonly held, the High King of all elves in Valinor paced back and forth in agitation. There was unrest amongst several Lords from all three factions of elves, a petty matter but one that could easily grow into something more dire if left untended. Finwë and Olwë both were raising suggestions for how a compromise could be reached.

“All this over who bears rights to farm where,” Olwë eventually cried, throwing his arms up in frustration. Finwë tried to soothe him. Ingwë continued his pacing.

Amongst this commotion, none noticed as an infant entered the chamber and halted upon seeing Ingwë’s white and gold-threaded robe pass by him. The cloth spread elegantly on the floor was moving in sharp circles, swinging around dramatically at every turn it made.

To a child it looked like a rather fun ride.  

Ingwë made another sharp turn and almost stumbled, a sudden unexpected weight on the end of his trailing robes throwing him off-balance. He cursed.

“Really,” Finwë scolded. “You should know better than to let your tongue be so loose and vulgar.”

“I see no reason as to why, in the company of three friends, I cannot forgo the propriety of our positions for a moment,” Ingwë shot back, brushing back strands of hair from his face.

Olwë laughed, one finger pointing to the cause. “You have acquired an additional accessory to your outfit, my friend, one with ears Finwë would rather you not be corrupting just yet.”

Ingwë looked down and saw the object of his friend’s amusement. Two wide, silver eyes blinked up at him. The child they belonged too babbled something incomprehensible, his round cheeks puffing out like a squirrel’s might, an adorable sight for anyone with eyes.

“And who is this delight?” the High King half asked, half crooned at the elfling. “Who might you be, little one? Come here now.”

The elf reached down to pluck the babe up into his arms. The babe, however, moved to evade him, quickly taking to his hands and knees and making his escape. It was not long, however, before he was swept up by another pair of arms – Finwë’s. This the elfling did not appreciate.

Ingwë watched as his old friend fingered the copper tuffs that adorned the child’s head in an attempt to soothe his rather loud distress. The High King smiled. “He is you grandson, is he not? Maitimo.”

“A fitting name,” Olwë commented. He pulled a face in the hopes of startling the crying babe into glee. It had the opposite effect.

“Stop terrifying the poor child,” Ingwë scolded.

Finwë bounced Maitimo in his arms, making soft shushing noises. “It is alright, little one. It is alright. See? His face is back to normal. No more nastiness. No more. It is all gone now. Or do you want me to make him turn around, hmm? King Olwë’s face _is_ a rather unfortunate mix of features.”

The Teleri scowled. Maitimo cried harder. “None of you appreciate my efforts.”

“Perhaps he wants to be put down,” Ingwë said, ignoring him. “Why don’t you try it?”

Finwë gave in to both his friend’s persuasion and his increasingly hard-to-hold grandson. Carefully, he placed Maitimo back on the ground by his feet, crouching to watch him and scoop him up again should the elfling cross anything that might harm his little form.

Maitimo’s fussing quickly quietened and he clapped his hands, before reaching over to tug on one of his grandfather’s dangling braids. Finwë winced but smiled nonetheless and used one long finger to bop the infant on his little nose. Even now the beginnings of freckles were beginning to show themselves across that fair, young skin. Maitimo laughed, a high-pitched sound much like a series of dainty bells all ringing in unison. Finwë bopped his nose again, his smile growing.

“He is very good natured,” Ingwë commented.

“Aye,” Olwë agreed. “He is also quite naked.”

That much was true. Finwë held his grandson’s silver gaze – a gaze that reminded him, as always, too much of Míriel’s own. “Who have you escaped from?” he asked. “Hmm? Who have you left worrying, my dear child?”  

Maitimo tugged at his own copper hair, then laughed and clapped. His nonsense babbling filled the room as he tugged his hair again and tapped his grandfather on his proud chin. Finwë bopped the elfling’s own chin in turn, sighing at the lack of answer.

“What am I to do with you?” he muttered to himself as the babe laughed again before becoming distracted and resuming his crawling. The Noldo King straightened. His brilliant blue eyes did not leave Maitimo.

Olwë grimaced. “Well, we cannot hold a court with a babe in the middle of it, naked no less.”

They watched as Maitimo came to play with the tassels on the bottom of the curtains that lined the walls.

Ingwë smiled. “Why not? He is a Prince after all, however young, and he will have to attend court eventually. Besides he is quiet enough now.”

“There is still the matter of his state of dress, or rather lack of it,” Olwë said.

“We came into this world naked,” the eldest of the elves there replied. “I see no shame in it now, especially when it is one so innocent.”

Olwë cocked an eyebrow. “I take it you still periodically run through your palace without so much as a stich to cover that well-endowed-”

“Yes, yes,” Finwë interrupted with a pointed look at his grandson. “It may be less of a hassle if we allow him to stay. It would also force the more outspoken of those Lords – _and Kings_ – to mind their tongues.”

Both Olwë and Ingwë raised their hands in a placating manner.

“He is still as bare as when he and we before him first awoke in this world,” the former said.

“Easily resolved,” Finwë said and swooped forward to drape his outer robe over his grandson, much to the latter’s amusement.

Ingwë smiled at the gurgled laughter, remembering and missing the time when such a sound had rung throughout his own household. But Ingil had grown and had yet to find the one with whom he would share his immortal life. His halls now seemed so empty despite the friends and servants that lived there. His wife, he knew, felt very much the same.

“You are lucky to have one so young still in your House,” he told Finwë with a soft smile. “Though I hear Indis is with child again.”

“Aye,” his friend replied. “She is certain this one will be a Lady as refined as her and Findis. Though her budding cravings are already strange…”

So went the conversation until the other Lords they were meeting with began to filter in. Only a few raised a protest to the child amidst them, though most only spared a greeting before turning to the matters at hand. Eventually, and with much arguing – though, as Finwë had predicted, this arguing was more civil than usual – it was finally settled that the contested land belonged primarily to the Teleri, though sections would also be used by the Noldor and the Vanyar families living in the area. If Olwë was a little smug of the outcome, he hid it well. After this, the Lords begged their leave and were granted it until only the three Kings and babe were left in the council chamber once again.

“What did I tell you?” Finwë said as he went to crouch by Maitimo once more. “You were very well behaved, my love. Very, very well behaved. There was no fussing or distracting at all. We shall make a diplomat of you yet!”

Maitimo gurgled his pleasure at the attention, grasping his grandfather’s finger and sticking it in his mouth.

“I rather thought he would be a smith,” a new voice broke in.

Finwë turned and stood, scooping up a more cooperative Maitimo, still wrapped in his own outer robe, as he did so. His smile to his eldest son was somewhat tentative, as was all his efforts to connect with Fëanáro were of late. He had been hurt that the elf had not sought the safety of his House when it had come time for the lovely Nerdanel to give birth. That hurt still smarted, but he found he was unable, unwilling to cling to it when he had been presented with his first grandson.

“I see you have been entertaining our little one,” Nerdanel said, her own smile gentle and wise.

The husband and wife must have come from their workshops, or rather Nerdanel’s, for both wore work clothes and were covered in white dust. Finwë knew his son’s wife had been commissioned to make a series of statues celebrating the Valar for an upcoming festival and supposed this must have been the task that had grasped their attention and caused them to leave their newborn son in the hands of another caretaker.

“He seems to have escaped from whomever it was you left him with last,” the Noldo King said as he passed Maitimo over to his father.

 

“And you found him?” Fëanáro asked, taking care that his son’s head laid against the cleanest part of his shift.

“Only when we discovered him sitting atop my robes,” Ingwë said, “Having crawled into this chamber of his own accord.”

“When you almost fell, you mean,” Olwë snickered under his breath, ignoring the dark look the Vanyar sent him.

“You are telling me that- He would have had to climb down the stairs.” Finwë’s eldest paled dramatically at the thought, though a frown quickly darkened his features once more. To his wife he turned and said, “I thought your father was supposed to be watching him.”

“He was,” Nerdanel replied. Her plain face was also frowning, though less severely than her husband’s. Her tone, however, was far more ominous.  

In future times many elves would laugh and mock the poor timing of a kinslayer with hair they said was as red as blood, at all the times the jewels he so sought had escaped his grasp by the breath of a hair. In the future many more would lament the poor timing that so seemed to mark the copper haired elf who stood against Valar both Dark and Light. In the future many would claim how those with copper hair were cursed with bad timing, but none would list the first instance of this – of how the copper haired Mahtan, even before his copper haired grandson painted his name in valour and blood across Darkened lands, had stepped into council chambers at the exact same time as his daughter’s ire had begun.

Mahtan grinned. “Fancy meeting you here. Nerdanel. Fëanáro. Your Graces,” he said, bowing to the three Kings in the room. “And, why, little Rusco! Fancy finding you here.”

There was silence for a while, save for Maitimo’s sudden eagerness to be held by his maternal grandfather.

Finally, Nerdanel raised an icy eyebrow at the bearded smith. “Well?”

Her father simply shrugged, accepting the babbling Maitimo from his father’s arms along with the robe he was now swaddled in. “Your son has mastered the art of crawling.”

“I can see that.”

“Ai! Your coldness wounds me, daughter,” Mahtan said. “He does so very well, I must say! Just like his mother running around in the nude when she was but a bit older, bolder than an angry badger and determined to adventure as the first elves did when they woke around Cuiviénen. Yes she did, little Rusco,” he said to the babe, barely wincing as his red beard was tugged. Looking to Finwë he added, “You have some doors with broken latches. I would advise you fix them. Your eldest could help with that.”

“And you would not?” said eldest asked, one eyebrow raised.

Mahtan raised his own eyebrow back. “I am looking after _your_ eldest, am I not? Imagine what trouble he might get into if left unattended. Stairs and _closets_ and all manner of nasty things.” At this both Nerdanel and Fëanáro turned a curious red. “Nay! I would not have this wee innocent babe exposed to such horridness.”

And then he made his sweeping exit, perhaps hurriedly, perhaps with the nonchalance of a father who knew he had far more interesting gossip on both his daughter and son-by-marriage to keep their scolding at bay. Either way, the five remaining elves found themselves flabbergasted, all speechless until Ingwë stumbled once more, tripping over his own robes and coming to land upon the floor with much flailing and a wild curse. Then Nerdanel and Fëanáro bid their hasty exit as the other two Kings broke into rambunctious laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Rusco means fox – it is one of Mahtan’s nicknames (epessë). I thought that he would use it to refer to an infant Maedhros, whose hair is similar to the that of Mahtan’s for which he received the name. I image that later he would give Maedhros the name Russandol. 
> 
> I also headcanon that Maedhros is a little older than Lalwen, and a bit more older than Finarfin. 
> 
> Again, I know this is not my best writing, but if it made you smile, please leave a comment letting me know!


End file.
